Quest for Honour (78 page)

“Many of those soldiers are from Larsa,” Eskkar said. “They’re wondering what happened to their families, their wives, whether they are alive or dead.”

“Some will go off looking for their kin, I expect.”

“Shulgi won’t allow that. None of them dare come closer to the ruins. If he lets even one of Larsa’s soldiers depart, they’ll all desert.”

“And we just stay here all day?”

“Our men need to rest, and we might as well do it here as anywhere. Besides, this way we can use up most of the food we took from Larsa. It will be that much less to carry. Shulgi’s soldiers will be tightening their belts tonight. They’ll find little to eat but what they carried with them.”

“And you think Shulgi will cross here and follow us to Isin?”

“If not here, then somewhere nearby. He must know where we intend to go by now. I just hope he hasn’t figured out where Hathor has gone.”

“Even if Shulgi does, Hathor will be fine. He knows . . .” Grond moved his eyes to the north. “There’s a boat coming down the river.”

Eskkar gazed up the expanse of the Tigris, lined on both sides with small trees and rushes. The height of the bluff, about a hundred paces, provided a good vantage point. A faint blur of white showed a ship under sail, taking advantage of a favorable breeze to race down the waterway. “We’re not expecting any more of Yavtar’s ships. It could be Sumerian.”

The last of the river craft had set out yesterday for Akkad. No more boats would be linking up with Eskkar’s army until he reached his next destination.

“I don’t think that’s . . . it’s moving too fast to be Sumerian,” Grond said. “It must be one of Yavtar’s messenger boats.”

Built for speed, the small but trim craft carried a taller sail and more than enough rowers to race a boat up or downriver.

By now Eskkar’s eyes picked up more detail. Definitely a messenger boat piloted by a fearless master, to sail his craft right toward the heart of the Sumerian army. “Let’s get down to the water before Shulgi finds some way to sink the boat.”

They wheeled their horses around and cantered away from the edge of the bluff. It took a few moments to reach the bottom. They rode along
the back of the hill until they reached the opening that led to what had been the western side docks for the city of Larsa.

When they reached the water’s edge, they found themselves joining a growing crowd of Akkadian soldiers. Other eyes had spotted the boat and come to the same conclusion. Every man in the army wanted to know what news it carried.

Eskkar didn’t have to wait long. The boat moved towards them, six rowers on each side propelling the craft through the calm waters. When the ship drew closer, the sail came down. Eskkar saw the oarsmen slow their strokes and lean back, letting the steersman guide the vessel through the currents. A man stood in the prow of the boat.

“It’s Draelin!” Someone with keen eyes recognized one of Daro’s subcommanders.

A moment later, the craft hissed onto the sandy riverbank. Before it stopped moving, Draelin leapt off the bow and splashed his way through the mud, ignoring those soldiers helping pull the boat up on the shore. Instead, he headed straight for the king.

Eskkar swung down from his horse just as Draelin arrived. Whatever news the soldier carried, it couldn’t be bad, not with a grin that broad on his face.

“Lord Eskkar,” Draelin began, but words failed him. He threw his arms around Eskkar and hugged him tight. Some of the soldiers standing around laughed at the sight. Before Eskkar could react, Draelin pushed away. “Lord Eskkar, I bring you –”

A powerful voice from one of the boat crew spoiled whatever speech Draelin had prepared. “We won! We defeated the barbarians and drove them from the walls!”

The words echoed off the cliff and out over the river. In a heartbeat the soldiers broke out in a cheer. By now more Akkadians had wandered down to the river. They took up the cry, everyone shouting and pounding their companions on the back.

“We won! Akkad is safe! The city is safe!”

Like a raging hillside fire, the word swept through the camp. Soldiers ceased whatever task occupied them and rushed to the river’s edge. In moments every Akkadian fighter joined in the celebration. The cheers and cries of five thousand voices swelled and soared over the river, a jubilation of pure joy mixed with relief. Since leaving Kanesh six days ago, the men of Akkad had worried about the dangers facing their city. By unspoken
agreement, no one had said anything about the threat to their family and friends left behind, but every man had struggled to keep the dark thoughts from his lips.

Across the river, the Sumerians clenched their fists in rage. They’d seen the ship come sailing down the Tigris, unafraid of their vast army. The enemy knew of the other ships that plied the river with the same impunity, carrying food and supplies to Eskkar’s army. And the Sumerians knew that only some great victory would have occasioned such an outburst, and that whatever good fortune cheered the Akkadians would bring only anger and gloom to their own cause and hearts.

By now Eskkar had regained his composure. Men from the boat had jumped ashore, each one shouting news about the attack. Draelin couldn’t be heard above the din, so Eskkar swung back up on his horse, then leaned down and grabbed Draelin by the arm. With one powerful swing Eskkar pulled the messenger up behind him. A touch of Eskkar’s heels sent the horse in motion, clearing a way through the still growing crowd of happy soldiers.

With Grond following, Eskkar finally broke free of the soldiers. He guided the horse back up the bluff, leaving the thousands of milling soldiers still celebrating beneath them. When he eased the horse to a stop, the cheering had started to die down.

“At least we can talk up here,” Eskkar said, as Draelin slid down from the horse. Eskkar followed, and with Grond accompanying them, they moved to the edge of the bluff, where they could see the camps of the Sumerians. “Now, tell me what happened!”

Draelin’s smile had returned. He told the story of Trella’s victory, how she had unearthed the plot and lured the Alur Meriki into the city, where the archers had riddled them with arrows.

“In the morning, we counted over seventy dead and wounded. That included another dozen cut down in the ditch as they fled. Horsemen from Bisitun arrived and even though they were outnumbered, they chased after the fleeing barbarians and killed a few more. The Alur Meriki didn’t even stop to attack or loot the outlying farms. By then they had no stomach for facing our fighters.”

As Draelin’s story unfolded, Eskkar felt a vast weight ease from his shoulders. Like his men, he had refused to think about Akkad and the danger to Trella. Now that burden could be set aside. With Shulgi’s army here, instead of ravaging Akkad’s lands and storming its walls, Trella and
little Sargon would be safe. The countryside and the all-important crops would be protected. And no matter what happened to Eskkar, it would be many months before Sumer could mount another assault on the northern lands.

Another emotion grew in his breast. The Sumerians had made a pact with their hated enemy, the common enemy of all city- and village-dwellers. Shulgi sought to unleash the fury of the Alur Meriki. Eskkar determined to turn that same fury against the Sumerians.

He made Draelin tell the story again and again, each time dragging a bit more information from the messenger. At last he could think of no more details to add.

“Lady Trella asked me to give you this message. She said to tell you that the city is safe, and well-stocked with provisions. Another cargo of silver just arrived from Nuzi, and all the soldiers received their pay. She wished you good fortune in your attack on Larsa.”

By now the boats that had departed after the capture of Larsa would have carried word of the city’s destruction to the north.

“You’ll stay the night with us, Draelin,” Eskkar said. “There’s enough wine to celebrate Trella’s victory.”

Draelin stared at the ruins across the river. “I stopped in Larsa only a few months ago. People spat at me in the lanes when they heard I was from Akkad.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to believe it’s all gone now.”

“They brought it on themselves,” Grond said. “Now I think we should take advantage of the wine, before the men drink it all.”

“I’ll drink a cup to your victory, Lord Eskkar. But as soon as darkness falls, we’ll push off for Akkad. Shulgi is positioning men all along the river, to stop our boats. It’s best to get as far north under cover of darkness as possible.”

With so many crewmen, the little craft could row all night, even against the current.

“Then a good journey to you, Draelin,” Eskkar said. “And tell Trella that we’ll be home soon.”

“Yes, only a few more battles to go,” Grond added. He took one last look at the vast Sumerian army camped across the river and shook his head.

The great western desert . . .

H
athor hated the desert, had always hated it, even when he lived in Egypt, where the desert sands lapped ever closer as one moved away from the Nile. Growing up along the mighty river’s banks, Hathor never experienced the cruel heat and burning sands of the desert until his fifteenth season, when his parents were killed. To fill his belly and seek revenge against their murderers, he joined Korthac’s marauders and fought against Korthac’s enemies for the next nineteen years. In time, he became a feared and powerful subcommander.

Most of those years he lived on the border of what the Egyptians called the eastern desert, cursing the fate that brought him there. The Akkadians called it the great western desert, but it remained the same sand, dust and searing rocks that spread from the land between the rivers almost to Egypt’s border.

But Korthac, despite his cunning, had lost his great battle to seize control of all Egypt. His army almost completely destroyed and his enemies – burning with a desire for revenge – closing in on him, Korthac and a few surviving followers fled into the great desert. For months Korthac led the remnants of his men through this dry and useless land, watching them die one by one, the living feeding on the bodies of those too weak to defend themselves. The survivors had crawled out of the desert just in time to avoid dying of thirst. Hathor still remembered lying
on his stomach, his face buried in a muddy irrigation ditch, drinking the sweetest water he’d ever tasted in his life.

Now once again Hathor found himself challenging the hot sands. He might well end up dead on this journey, but at least this time it wouldn’t be the desert that killed him. Death would more likely come from a Tanukh arrow or Sumerian spear. But despite his distaste for these barren and arid lands, no man in Akkad knew more about fighting in this environment than he did. So Hathor had volunteered to lead the cavalry.

With Klexor and seven hundred and fifty horsemen, Hathor had ridden north after separating from Eskkar and bypassing Kanesh, taking a little-used trail that bypassed most villages. That day they covered almost forty miles and reached the first of their supply points. Yavtar’s bobbing boats waited for Hathor’s arrival, riding low in the water with extra food for the men and grain for the horses. Another thirty horses waited there as well, guarded by a dozen Akkadians who had herded them across the river and down to meet the cavalry. The spare mounts, all of them battle trained, would carry food and weapons, but their main function would be as reserves for any animals lost on the long journey before them.

Akkad’s defenders would sorely miss the mounts. The decision to send them to Hathor would weaken the city, and only Trella’s resolve and support had overridden Bantor’s objections.

“A few more mounted riders won’t save the city,” Trella said, “but they may make the difference between Hathor’s success or failure.”

He wished the men who delivered the mounts could accompany him, but they needed to return to Akkad as quickly as possible. The city would be in danger, and craved every man who could swing a sword in its defense. Eskkar’s war plan had much that could go wrong, and not least was the possibility that Akkad might fall while her army struggled in the south. Hathor had observed Korthac take many a desperate gamble, but never one such as this, that required so much from so many. The blessings of the gods – or Eskkar’s famous luck – would be stretched to the limit.

With Hathor’s horses and men resupplied, his cavalry started their journey at dawn the next morning. This time he led the way north-west. They had to get far enough away from anyone who might report a large body of horsemen moving toward the desert or the vicinity of Lagash. If King Shulgi learned of their position or even their general direction, it wouldn’t be difficult to guess their destination. Once that happened, the
warning would flash down the rivers, and Akkad’s enemies would be alerted to a new danger.

All those worries mattered little now. Hathor and his force were as committed as Eskkar’s own. If the Akkadian cavalry reached their destination and found a well-armed and well-prepared foe waiting for them, they would just have to deal with the situation as best they could. Attack if possible, or extricate themselves from whatever trap the enemy might have set.